Reflective Writing

Longing for a Greenbelt

“Come on Achimore,” Adam shouted at the top of his lungs, “Finish your breadsticks already and let’s go. We’re running out of time!” Adam, as usual, was acting like a soldier on a mission, and nothing, not even my need to eat, would get in the way of his Saturday adventures. I, of course, needed to carbo-load for the afternoon by consuming an un-godly amount of cheesy breadsticks. With the melted cheese seducing my nose, I could have sworn that I was being dragged away from cholesterol heaven. Adam and the gang were already heading for the door, so I managed to stuff two more breadsticks in my mouth before smearing my greasy hands all over my helmet as I caught up with them. Leaving the pizza parlor with a broken heart, I managed to hop on my bike, clip my helmet on, and peddle rapidly off in the direction of our favorite hang-out spot: the greenbelt.

Stretching for miles in the safe community of Davis, the green belt is a long bike path containing grassy fields, play structures, and work-out stations for those intense soccer moms committed to keeping their cardio training up. But the most important part of the greenbelt to my childhood contained none of these more pleasant qualities of an upper-middle class park. As twelve year olds devoted to the idea of stirring trouble, my friends and I didn’t need much help to find ways to cause chaos and mayhem. Dried twigs and clods of dirt in a meadow the size of a soccer field was all my friends and I required to stay entertained during our seventh grade years, and we found exactly this in the dirt-clod field behind some rarely-used tennis courts on the greenbelt.

During this particular day, my buddy Mike had bought a water-balloon launcher and we quickly began launching the few water balloons we had left before aiming pomegranates at pigeons. We even set up our bikes in line formations and attempted to launch any objects we could find to try and knock them over. It was after Adam’s bike went crashing to the ground that a simultaneous light-bulb went on in all our heads: let’s turn this into a fight. My friends and I quickly divided into two groups, ran to separate ends of the field, placed our bicycles on their kickstands next to each other, and started throwing the dirt-clods at the other team. The goal was to be the first group to knock over all the bicycles of the opposing team with the dirt-clods. Of course, if you ventured too close to the other team, you were liable to get a dirt-clod smacking you in the head. Despite our shoulders getting sore, our clothes getting dirtied, and our skin getting battered and bruised, we couldn’t help laughing and having the time of our lives. After about an hour of an intense battle, the game came to an abrupt halt when Ty hit David with what was technically deemed a “pebble” and not a “dirt-clod,” leading to a quick disqualification. But the fun had been had, and for the rest of the day, no bruises or broken bones could ever have wiped those grins off our faces.

Twelve years later, my daily jogs take me by the field as I seem to have been influenced by those soccer moms I thought I never would have emulated. Only now, the field has no more dirt-clods, as green grass has instead grown in, with random flowers and unexpected weeds blooming depending on the season. All my friends have gone their separate ways now, and while we occasionally catch up, most of us have lives of our own that keep us occupied most of the time. When some of my friends do swing by Davis, we might grab a bite to eat, or watch a sports game, but without our bicycles leading the way, there is little reason for us to travel on the greenbelt any longer.

It’s unfortunate, even depressing to think about, but those kids on their bikes are mostly a distant memory now. Much like how the dirt-clods have disappeared from the field, gone are the days when I could carelessly cause trouble on the weekends without the fears of graduate school deadlines, family obligations, or commitments to work. Although I still live in Davis, the twelve years that have passed have aged me in a way that makes those seventh grade kids a distant memory in a far-removed life, one that I at times wish I could retreat back into. In many ways, I always knew it was inevitable that my friends and I would out-grow the greenbelt and the other immature adventures we peddled off to every Saturday. With Mike recently married, David starting his residency rotations, and Adam in the middle of law school, it’s fairly apparent that my friends and I have moved on to what many might call the “adult world.”

This nostalgic longing for our childhood seems only natural as we grow older. That yearning for what seems in our own minds as a simpler time, full of laughter and harmless mistakes, sticks with us as we creep up in age each year and begin making decisions that we feel impact our lives in monumental terms. It seems as though we all miss our own “greenbelts” as children. That space we could go, both physically and mentally, where we did not actually have to think about paying bills or holding onto our jobs before our lease ends.  

            But this is the exact trap that adults can fall into. Instead of moving on from our treasured childhood memories, we grasp onto them without recognizing the simple fact that time has changed. And this is not a bad thing. Transitioning into adulthood does not have to be a death stamp on laughter, joy, or innocent fun. Yes we are older, but with age comes a wisdom that allows us to rationalize our memories and make sense of them in a new context. Although we may make decisions that hold more weight and live our lives with a different purpose, we can now fully appreciate any free weekends in the sun, lunch breaks with co-workers, or brief moments when we can simply zone-out. As adults, we can learn how to value those experiences that we often took for granted as children. With this greater appreciation, adults have the potential to perhaps find more delight and satisfaction than was ever possible during our adolescent and childhood years.

I hardly notice it on my runs anymore, but every now and then I turn my head, looking in the direction of the dirt-clod field, and remember those kids with grins on their faces that could have lit up the sky. Maybe it’s not important to become that kid again, throwing clods of dirt at his friends. What’s important instead, twelve years later, is finding that smile on my own face yet again.